


May 22

by lookingforatardis



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Confessions, HAHA I JUST LEARNED THAT'S A TAG AND BOY I JUST FOUND MY NEW FAVORITE TAG, Love Confessions, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, This isnt that bad okay, in regards to the angst i mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 23:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14681337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Hindsight is amazing, how clear your own foolish daydreams can be when reality comes and shatters them whole. Eight years. Congratulations.Or, the anniversary fic no one asked for but i wrote anyway





	May 22

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't know, Armie and Elizabeth's anniversary is on May 22nd. Every two years, Armie adds to a tattoo that's on his left ring finger. This being their eight year anniversary means that he's due for the next addition. (this is true, I'm not making this part up lol the last time he added to it was in Italy for their 6 year. He'll stop at year 10, at least that's what he's said in the past) 
> 
> Knowing that is what started this fic, and it just sort of spiraled.

  **May 22 12:01am**

My heart sinks to the depths of my being. I can see it all happening already, the plans made with his favorite tattoo artist, the dinner reservations, the hotel key card sure to surface. Eight years. There was a time I didn't think they'd make it to that landmark, that his only eight year anything would be with me.

Hindsight is amazing, how clear your own foolish daydreams can be when reality comes and shatters them whole. Eight years. Congratulations.

Sometimes I wonder if he knows, if he understands what I post, like, tweet. He must, surely. He does it too. Hidden messages for hidden emotions. It used to be a game in my own mind, see if he'd notice, how long it would take. He hadn't mentioned my stories in nearly a year though, so I think he probably forget. It's alright, I shouldn't have expected him to connect the dots when I never gave him the map.

I fall asleep sometime around 1am. The weed helps.

When I wake up, it's still the 22nd and he's still asleep, fucking time zones. I pace for a while but that never actually helps, so I give up. Grab a coffee, visit my parents. Pass the time repetitively, rhythmically like only the city allows with the ebb and flow of life and wonder and profound disappointment. My parents see through me, ask if I'm alright. Of course, why wouldn't I be? Not like today was anything special, no reason for me to not be okay.

He calls around noon, like he always does when we're separated by this much space. He laughs and says _typical_ when I tell him I've already been up, gotten coffee, had an existential crisis. It's all jokes, that's all it is these days. He doesn't seem to hear the ring of truth, but then again, I try to keep it at bay. I don't ask about it, but he brings it up, and then what can I do? "Ah, fuck man. That's right, wow. Congrats! That's pretty huge, any big plans?" I don't want him to tell me, I don't need to know how it would go down. _The usual, you know. I don't know._ Sometimes I wonder how he can bring something up only to push it away just as quickly, as if he's pressing a knife through me, removing it with even more vigor until I spill out the secrets I've kept hidden, falling at his feet and covering us whole.

"Right, well that's cool." I don't mean it, but he doesn't ask if I do. Maybe he knew, maybe all along the reason he never questioned the tone of my voice was because he sensed the answer wouldn't be something he could handle. I get it. I don't even want to handle it, how can I push that on him when so much was at risk for him, even if this was all in my head? Eight fucking years. _Eight_. That means something, that means don't tell me you're in love with me, that means stay away or you'll get hurt. I never followed directions very well.

She posts first, it actually kind of surprises me. He's usually the first to make such declarations, something I hate that I know. It's cute, if I can ignore her. He's cute. I don't read her caption out of self-preservation, but when he posts nearly an hour later, I devour the syllables until they've crept into my mind and erased the possibility of happiness for the remainder of the day. She doesn't post on her story until later, until it hurts, until I see what's going on and can watch with the rest of the world because this, _this_ doesn't include me. It never will.

It still doesn’t stop me from posting something, maybe subconsciously retaliating. Maybe I want him to see, to notice me. It’s pathetic but it’s the only game plan I have. It doesn’t work, or at least not for awhile.

He texts me at some point when I'm already at a bar trying to forget him. I try not to let it go to my head but god it does. A simple thing, a _forgot how much tattoos hurt._ He has no clue his words hurt more than any needle, a symbol of a prolonged commitment. He might as well have said _I do_ again. Stupid Timmy, I realize too late that I'd hoped he would opt out this time, make an excuse, push it off. It stings more than the ink must have stung him. I turn everything off after that, get wasted. Maybe I can forget the date if I can't see straight enough to read it on a calendar.

 

* * *

 

**May 23 3:19am**

I don't remember turning my phone back on, but it's bright and blinding and I swear louder than intended, that too rings in my ears until I feel nauseous. I couldn't have been out for long, I'm still wearing my shoes and I never even made it to the bed. I fumble with the phone settings until the darkness is turned all the way down and only then does it hit me what I'd done.

_AH: Why didn't you tell me?_

I read his message over and over, stare at the missed call. Stare at the outgoing call made approximately 45 minutes ago that I couldn't quite remember deciding to make. I'm still too drunk to deal with this, but his words are _fucking bright._

I scan through, trying to decipher what I'd done, find a text from Ansel asking if I'm alright. I look at Instagram first, fearing I'd revealed too much. There's a black story with Frank Ocean playing posted 52 minutes ago. I delete it immediately, my head pounding, the fear of what I might have done sobering me significantly. What did I say, he hadn't picked up the phone but he surely knew something or else he wouldn't have texted me. A message, I must have left a voicemail, what was it, god, _dammit_.

I'm shaking too hard to type a response. I hit the voice message option instead, terrified and relieved, maybe he finally knew, maybe this would finally be over for real and I could start healing once and for all.

"Still kinda drunk, not sure what I said. Please god tell me I didn't say something I shouldn't have?" I hit send before logic kicks in and tells me to slow down. His reply comes later, much later. It wakes me up and I try with all that I have to not think about why it took so long for him to get back to me.

_AH: Never mind. It's nothing. Drink some water t._

I stare at the screen in desperation, waiting for a follow up, for anything. It’s far too late to hope for anything more but that doesn’t stop my heart from racing on. My body’s need for sleep pulls my mind and I fight it but it’s stronger than I am. The next time I wake up, my phone is dead and it almost makes me laugh.

Light streams through brighter than I’d like and I wrap a blanket around my body to keep it at bay, stumbling to plug my phone in and sinking to the floor to wait for it to turn back on. Seconds pass like hours, I fall asleep again waiting for an answer from him that will bring any form of peace. When the screen lights up, he still hasn’t reached out. It’s early there, he’s not awake. I wish he’d wake up.

I call him because it feels more purposeful, knowing all along I’d leave a message. “Hey, listen. I don’t know what I said but it’s obviously not nothing. Call me.” I regret it as soon as I hang up, but the words are out there already and I can’t take them back. My mom texts me about lunch and it’s almost like she knows. Maybe she does, she kept tabs on me more than I think even I knew.

The message comes through before the waiter shows up with our food.

 _AH:_ _It’s nothing, seriously. I’ll call later, we’re busy right now. Hope you’re not too hungover._

It’s bullshit, it’s absolute bullshit. He must know I can see through it. I told him I loved him, I’m sure of it. Nothing else could get this response. Him running. He’s trying to protect himself from it and I can’t blame him. If the roles were reversed and some kid called me on my anniversary in the middle of the night declaring his love I’d probably be pretty shaken, too.

I excuse myself and try to offer up a genuine enough smile so Mom doesn’t worry too much, but I’m sure she does anyway. I call him and he ignores it, confirming my fears. I text him: _Please answer._ I call again, but he seems determined not to speak to me.

It’s fine, I should have expected it. It shouldn’t affect me. I return to Mom and we eat. She doesn’t ask and I don’t offer. She knows though, I can see it in her eyes that she knows I’m hurt.

He calls a few hours later and I consider for a moment not answering, that would show him. I’m far too weak to resist, though, and he knows it. “Hey,” I say, pacing immediately.

“Sorry, it’s been kind of crazy. Sounded like you had fun last night, did you go party or—”

“Don’t do this.” I surprise myself at my boldness, at my willingness to engage in a conversation he so desperately wants to avoid. “Just tell me, please.”

“It’s not a big deal, Timmy,” he says. I can almost see him shaking his head, his cover-up smile.

“Then tell me.” For some reason, thinking of him saying it out loud, my own words spit back at me, is terribly appealing.

“It’s not going to make anything better,” he says. He sounds nonchalant and it’s irritating. I want him to be embarrassed or confused or _something_ other than unaffected. I _know_ he’s not unaffected.

“Armie, please. Whatever it was, just tell me.”

There’s a long pause and I can hear the chatter on the other end of the phone. It occurs to me for the first time he still might not be alone, that I might be just another call, just another thing to check off his list on his “busy day” he mentioned. I push my own insecurities away.

“You said you caught feelings. You were kind of upset, but it’s okay. I know you were drunk, it’s not a big deal.”

It _is_ a big deal, I want to tell him. Even drunk me couldn’t grow the balls to say the extent of the feelings, it seems. I almost wish I’d said it and shocked him. Maybe he’d have taken it more seriously if I’d said the word “love.” Then again, maybe I had and he was hiding it. Maybe he was afraid to face what had been building between us.

I should remember, I wasn’t quite black out last night. There’s no reason I shouldn’t remember. Maybe my subconscious has blocked it out, repressed the memory as soon as it happened to save myself.

“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say because he’s right, it doesn’t make anything better to know what I said. It doesn’t change anything.

“Yeah, seriously it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

He probably already knew, that’s why he isn’t losing his mind or worried or anything. Life is continuing as usual, he still called, he still sounded normal even if it was a bit more reserved (or was I reading into things?). This couldn’t possibly have been such a surprise, he had to have known.

But then—

“Why’d you text me that? If it’s not a big deal?” His text, his fucking text. I had to have said more.

“I was… surprised. I don’t know, it wasn’t what I was expecting to hear from a voicemail from you.”

“That’s bullshit.” I don’t know why I fight him, he might be telling the truth. But god, I need to know. That text wasn’t about catching feelings, that text _had_ to mean I said more, revealed _more._

“Timmy,” he sighs. Actually sighs, like a goddamn movie. My heart starts racing and I know, I _know_ I’m right. He sounds nervous.

“I told you the truth, didn’t I?” I might throw up from from the nerves at even saying this, a quiet confession in itself.

“Yeah,” he says. “You did.” Even after everything, the fact that he knows exactly what I mean sends me reeling.

We sit on each side of the line in silence. There isn’t any commotion coming from him anymore and I wonder if he walked into a room to be alone. It makes me sick that I hope he did, hiding away to keep me a secret. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t hide.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you wanted to hear it,” I say finally, referring to his first text. My hands are shaking and if it weren’t for the wall I’d probably collapse in on myself with the seconds that pass without a response.

“It was my anniversary, Tim. You couldn’t have told me on any other day?” I focus on his voice, on how quiet and tense it is. When we were doing press, sometimes he’d whisper to me between interviews with this voice of his. It’s almost calloused in tone.

“I didn’t want to tell you at all,” I shrug, but it’s a lie and we both know it. I wish I could remember exactly how I said it— did I cry? I probably cried. I might have been laughing, though. It could have been a happy confession, I was probably drunk enough to think it would be reciprocated.

“God, I could have— this wasn’t— you should have _told_ me. I mean, fuck, Timmy. I was in a goddamn hotel room with her and you were out there fucking... _professing_ your…” I hear him struggling; my chest seizes and I can’t decide if I want him to keep talking or not.

“I don’t really want to hear about your night in a hotel room with her,” I tell him, meaning to lighten the mood but knowing it does nothing to help. I’m not surprised, I didn’t try very hard to mask the pain. My voice catching doesn’t help either.

“Timmy,” he sighs. I’d heard him sigh so many times since I’d met him. I’d been the _cause_ of a lot of his sighs. This one hurts though. It feels final.

“I know, I know. You’re married.” He always liked to remind me of this when I got mopey. He had to have known all along or he never would have reminded me about his ring. What I can’t understand is why he sent the text, though. It still didn’t add up. None of this adds up.

“I got a fucking tattoo last night,” he says. “You should have _fucking told me._ ”

His words bite. My body seems to stop working and I swallow hard, try to focus my vision. I can hear footsteps; he’s pacing. Should have told him. He said I should have told him. Should have—

“Armie—”

“Two fucking years, Timmy. _Two years._ You’ve been in love with me for two years and you tell me on my anniversary? What the fuck is wrong with you?” It would hurt if I couldn’t hear his voice shaking. His words are harsh but not at me; I don’t know how I know this, only that I do.

“I’m sorry.” I think he needs to hear it as much as I needed to tell him how I felt. I don’t mind. I _am_ sorry. For so much.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I start crying out of frustration and a deep feeling of missed opportunity when I’m sure I know what’s happening, what he’s actually telling me.

“You were right, it doesn’t change anything.” I hate myself for saying it, but it’s true. He wouldn’t leave her, not right now anyways. Not even if what he’s saying is what I think he’s saying.

“It might have,” he whispers. “Timmy, it— it _might_ have.” My heart is racing and I’m sure his isn’t any different. I used to fall asleep to that heartbeat in Italy, I could predict it’s shifts better than he could.

“Don’t put all this on me. You had two years, too, Armie. You didn’t need me to tell you not to get the fucking tattoo, you could have decided that on your own if you didn’t want to be with her... You’re just afraid you’ll lose me,” I say, tired and unwilling to sit through a conversation about what-ifs when he probably still smelled like her perfume.

“And I don’t want to lose you either, Armie. But I can’t do this. I can’t pretend I don’t love you and if you’re going to pretend _for_ me then I can’t...I can’t handle that. I can’t keep visiting you and pretending it doesn’t kill me. It’s not just this, either. It’s _you_ , it’s this life you made for yourself. It suffocates you and I can’t keep watching you put yourself down. You’re killing yourself trying to be who they want you to be. Do you even know what you want anymore? Am I just convenient? Something to say you want because, because I want you, because this isn’t something you had to start or look for first?”

My words silence him and it hurts, it shouldn’t but it hurts. I want him to fight, but isn’t that why I never told him to begin with? Because I knew he wouldn’t? He isn’t ready, and I’d always known that. “Do you really want to know?” he mutters after awhile. I shake my head despite knowing he can’t see it.

“I don’t think you know what you—”

“I don’t get it, Timmy. I really don’t get it. You tell me you’re in love with me but you don’t want to hear that it might be—”

“No! I don’t want to hear it! Because it’s not going to change _anything!”_ I cringe at my own voice, at how the power behind it causes me to lift away from the wall and pace. “You’re acting like we’ve never been here before but damn it, Armie. We have. How many times have I tried to kiss you, how many fucking times have I laid my heart out on the line for you, how many times have I worn your clothes, how many times have I flown to be wherever the fuck you wanted me? It doesn't change _anything._ It _never_ fucking changes anything. So no, I don’t think you know what you fucking want. Because if you wanted me, if you _wanted_ me…” I trail off, afraid of finishing the sentence. He stays quiet and I don’t know whether to be relieved or not. Finally, I find my voice. “If you really wanted me you wouldn’t have gotten the tattoo.”

“That’s not fair,” he complains. I know it’s not, that my words disregard all his feelings just because he did what was expected of him. There’s a sick part of me that wants him to feel just an ounce of the helplessness I feel in this moment, though.

“No, it’s not. You’re right. Nothing about this is fair.”

I don’t know what else to say to him. I guess I always thought if he knew, if I actually said the words, that he might wake up and do something. In reality, my words made him nervous and withdraw one moment only to pull me back the next. It would destroy me if I let it. _He_ would destroy me.

“I was afraid,” he says quietly.

“I know,” I tell him. He’s still afraid. “I’m sorry I told you. I knew it wouldn’t do any good, I should have reigned it in last night. I mean, she’s your wife. I get it.” Silence hangs over us so long that I think he might have hung up on me. It makes my head hurt.

“I feel lost,” he says finally. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to make this hurt stop and that alone makes it worse. I feel lost, too.

“Maybe it’s time you stopped lying to yourself,” I say softly, knowing my words could be taken poorly. I don’t mean them to be, but without Luca around all the time, someone needs to tell him. “About her, about who _you_ are...”

“About you,” he offers. I nod and look down at my feet. “It’s not easy for me,” he says, and I know he’s trying. I almost wish he’d stop because then it would be a cleaner break.

“It would be easier for you than you think. You wouldn’t be alone,” I tell him. I’m not sure if we’re talking about divorce, or coming out, or being with me. I don’t know if it matters. “You’d feel free.”

“I know, I know.”

“But you don’t do anything about it. You know it would be better and you just… keep going down this path. You’re going to wake up one day and realize you wasted your entire life being someone you’re not,” I say, tears forming in my eyes. I’m frustrated at him, and frustrated with myself because I _understand_ where he’s coming from. I’m asking him to change everything. No amount of freedom after the fact would change how terrifying it would be to let go.

“Give me a little time,” he says, his voice small. I hear a door opening and closing and it feels like a sign that this is over before it’s even started. “I’m trying to get there, it’s just...I didn’t even know you felt this way.”

“Yes you did.” More silence.

“Maybe I did.”

“I’m not going to wait forever, Armie—”

“I know, I’m not asking you to.” I stare at the wall and take a few even breathes. It doesn’t feel real, this conversation. It feels like I’m watching us have this conversation on film. Everything with him feels like it’s happening on film.

“I have to go,” I say after a while. I guess I don’t really _need_ to, but I can hear his kids in the back and it becomes increasingly apparent that he’s not going to end the call himself. And to be honest, I’m not sure I can take any more of this back and forth.

Luca calls after a few hours and he talks me down from my emotional ledge, telling me things he’d held back for two years. Things about Armie’s heart, his struggles, things he always wanted me to know but couldn’t find the courage to say out loud. He tells me he almost didn’t do their anniversary traditions this year, tells me how filming his latest project had made it impossible for them to ignore the problems in their relationship. He tells me to ask Armie why he really got the tattoo this year, what it actually meant. He tells me Armie saw all the signs and didn’t want to hurt me in the process of figuring out what he really wanted out of his life. He tells me that every time Elizabeth went to visit set, Armie would find ways to keep them around Luca so he had a buffer, too afraid of her seeing his attachment to me. He tells me he knew the day Armie fell in love with me because the way he talked about me changed. He tells me he’d been fighting himself for a long time. Tells me he nearly told his parents a few months ago and got too nervous. Tells me that as much as I know about him, as many secrets as he’d told me, there was still so much he’d kept from me, afraid of hurting me if this didn’t work out in our favor.

He tells me he called him right after I hung up with him. That he told Luca everything and was terrified he missed his chance. That he asked him to call me and explain the things he wasn’t ready to yet. By the time Luca’s finished, I can’t breathe properly. “He wants to tell you all of this himself, but he worries you won’t let him.” I shake my head, but he might be right. I wasn’t sure I could handle all of this coming directly from him. “He’s getting there. He’s just a little slower than you were,” Luca tells me. “He’s trying, in his own way. You know how he gets with his heart.”

And I do, I _do_ know how he gets with his heart. He protects it because he thinks no one else will.

I text him before going to bed, knowing I wouldn’t sleep if I didn’t. I had hours to digest what both he and Luca told me, hours to contemplate my own heart and what I actually wanted. And I knew, without a doubt, that I’d wait for him.

_TC: Talked to Luca. YOU should have told ME._

_AH: I know… I’m sorry._

_TC: The next anniversary you celebrate is OURS. Deal?_

_AH: Deal._

_AH: Pencil it in now. Next May 23 I’m taking you out._

_AH: That’s a promise._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really set out for this to have a happy ending but against all odds, it happened. Let me know what you think! :)


End file.
